


A Flower For Your Love

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Happy, Language of Flowers, M/M, Romance, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 07:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: A single red carnation sits outside England's door.England doesn't know what to make of it. But the next day there's another flower, and the day after that there's one again...





	A Flower For Your Love

**Author's Note:**

> Oui = Yes (French), Angleterre = England (French). 
> 
> Enjoy!

A single red carnation lay at England’s door.

He blinked. Was someone trying to prank him? Or, perhaps, was it intended for someone else?

England took a tentative step towards the flower, and glanced up and down the hallway to reassure himself that no one was watching. Then in one quick movement he bent and snatched the flower from the ground. He hurried back into his hotel room.

The lock twisted easily under his fingers; the flower was nowhere as simple. England had always thought that carnations looked dry and thin, like a scrunched-up piece of colourful newspaper – but this flower was soft and sweet-smelling and a deep, deep red.

He frowned.

“I love you,” the red carnation seemed to whisper, its voice low, its source a mystery. That was what the flower meant, after all – it’d been as such when Queen Victoria had reigned, and it remained so in the modern day.

Someone had to be intentionally misleading him. Surely, for no one – no one would –

But it’d be a waste to let something so beautiful wilt away just like that. England filled a nearby vase with water, and gently lowered the red carnation inside.

He sighed, and got on with the day.

\---

France approached him a few metres from the conference building.

“Enjoying your stay in the City of Love, _Angleterre_?” he said, effortlessly falling into step beside England. “I'm staying at the hotel too, just to share everyone's experience. The city’s quite lovely, isn’t it?” France’s voice was light and teasing – it seemed to float, playfully, on the cool breeze. “After all, Paris is my heart.”

“Not at all,” said England quietly. “It’s overfull, spilling with oversaturated romance.” There had to be some hidden joke in France’s words, some mysterious intent to hurt England in some way –

And saying that Paris was beautiful was like saying that France was beautiful. England’s chest tightened at the thought of those words leaving his mouth.

“You wound me,” said France, recoiling from England in mock horror – “I suppose you must be immune to love, yes? After all, you haven’t been with anyone for _hundreds_ of years, have you?”

A stupid flush attacked England’s cheeks. “That’s none of your business,” he snapped.

But they’d already reached the conference building. They struggled through layers of security, dashed from one end of the building to another, for they were already late – there, Germany glared at them from the end of the hallway, tapping his watch; the meeting room beckoned towards them, miserably, inevitably.

And neither France nor England spoke to one another for the rest of the day.

\---

The next morning, it was a blue hyacinth.

England stared at the offending flower. It couldn’t have been an accident, then, for it’d happened a second time – perhaps someone really was trying to send him a message. So someone honestly intended to romance –

He shook the thought away with a grimace. Honestly, he should’ve known better than to imagine such a possibility – more likely than not, someone had mistaken his room for that of their lady love, and was simply sending flowers to the wrong location.

Who on earth would want to romance _him_ , anyway?

But he brought the flower in nonetheless, placing it in the vase with the red carnation. Hyacinths represented sports and play – when it was blue it was also a sign of sincerity.

_Sincerity._

England raised his hand to run his fingers over the tiny, individual blooms. This hyacinth was a muted colour – a quiet one, a white-purple-blue. In its modesty, it seemed to draw attention to the deep red carnation to its left; to show it off, like a male ballet dancer lifting his ballerina.

Together, they whispered, “I sincerely love you.”

And England’s heart fluttered in his chest.

\---

The meeting was short and uneventful.

Three more days of this, and it would all be over. England sighed as he stood to leave the room. It was with difficulty that he avoided France’s gaze – the other man had been trying to catch his eye for the entire duration of the meeting. Heat rose to England’s face at the memory – but he was just overthinking, overanalysing, sinking into folly. France was the great romanticist of the world; he was a Casanova, a gardener with the world’s flowers at his disposal. He was probably serenading Sweden, or sending sonnets to Switzerland, or slipping into Spain’s bedside.

Knowing France, nothing would come as a surprise.

“Ah, it’s England!”

The familiar voice made England turn. It was Spain, standing by the window with a huge smile on his face, waving at him. The sunlight danced on his dark hair, cheerfully throwing its veil on his olive skin.

“Spain.” England nodded curtly at him. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing much!” Spain’s green eyes flashed as he moved towards England, his movements relaxed, easy. “I was just thinking about the past recently, you know? A lot of it involves you.”

England frowned. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me,” said Spain, tilting his head with a grin. “We’ve known each other for a long time – and it’s been ages since I last sat down to really talk to you.”

Their eyes met.

“My old friend, my old enemy,” said Spain softly. His smile didn't falter.

Hundreds of years trembled between them in that moment, infinitely distancing, inescapably drawing them closer together. It’d been such a long time, and so many things had happened, and so many things were still happening, and so many things would happen in the future –

Such was life as the physical embodiment of a nation.

“Let’s go, then,” said England.

They ate, and talked, and settled into silence. Their voices rose, and fell, and rose again – then at last they came to an agreement, a final understanding.

And for a short while, the mysterious flowers slipped to the back of England’s mind.

\---

The marigold glared at him.

“How dare you,” it seemed to hiss. “Look at my jealousy, look at my grief, look at my despair. This is all your fault.”

Indignation quickly rose in England’s chest. What on earth – he hadn’t kissed Spain that night, or confessed his love, or shared his bed. He didn’t feel anything for Spain beyond simple, uncomplicated respect.

This was ridiculous.

Sitting beside the passionate red carnation and the calm blue hyacinth, the seething yellow marigold seemed to burn England’s irises. This could no longer be a coincidence. No random lovesick youth sent their beloved a marigold with all its ugly meanings. It was too specific – it had to be for England.

Then who was it? Rather, which nation was it?

England had to find out.

\---

It wasn’t as simple a task as he’d thought.

The meeting was as dreadfully uneventful as the last one, so England used the time to mull over his problem. First he ruled out every nation who had a significant other; then he rejected those who wouldn’t attempt to woo him through the language of flowers, like America and Denmark.

His eyes landed on France. The man was reclining in his chair – his head was obligingly tilted towards Germany, the speaker, but his gaze was unfocused and his thoughts seemed worlds away.

And England’s breath caught in his throat when France looked straight at him and winked.

Then his heart was racing, and he was furiously trying not to blush, and he was lowering his head to avoid drawing attention to himself. His mysterious suitor was France – it had to be him, it had to.

Yet England couldn’t shake the doubt in his mind. What if this was all just wishful thinking? Yes, he had no choice but to admit it to himself now – he felt something for France, something burning, something indescribable, and he wanted, he needed France to feel the same way as well.

But he couldn’t be certain. He couldn’t know, unless –

When the meeting ended England jumped from his seat and rushed out of the door. He knew where he was headed – he’d passed the shop several times, as he made his way from the hotel to the meeting room – one turn, then another, and…

The flower shop loomed before his eyes. It was a large, wide place – inside the glittering windows England was certain that it was perfumed by the fragrances of hundreds of flowers.

He stepped in. A little silver bell tied to the door tinkled with the movement. The proprietor, a little old lady with a lined face and kind eyes, smiled, and inclined her head at him.

“Hello, I – ” began England – then he remembered that he was in France, and that he’d have to speak French.

“Uh… _bonjour, Madame_ ,” said England, wildly casting about for the correct vocabulary. It’d been years since he’d last spoken French fluently. “ _Avoir – vous – vu – une – l’homme…_ ” He was getting nowhere. “ _…le blond…bleu les yeux…_ ” She was still smiling at him, a certain grandmotherly patience gracing her features. “ _Achat une…_ ” What was the word for marigold? “ _…Jaune fleur…? Ce matin?_ ”

“Did I see a blond, blue-eyed man buy a yellow flower this morning?” repeated the old lady in perfect English.

England desperately fought the urge to jump on the first flight home and never show his face in Paris ever again. “Yes,” he said, feeling like an idiot. “A marigold.”

The sweet old lady bobbed her head enthusiastically. “ _Oui, oui!_ ” she said brightly. “This morning! I told him it was bad, it was jealousy, but he bought it! He bought a blue hyacinth before that, and a red carnation on the first day!” She giggled to herself, and deep laugh lines etched themselves in the outer corners of her eyes. “Was it for you?”

England didn’t even try to fight the redness that was creeping onto his cheeks. “I think so,” he said softly.

The old lady seemed to swell with excitement. Within moments she had hurried from the small counter to where England stood, and had clasped England’s hands tightly between her own. “Be good to him,” she said, her eyes huge, her voice trembling with emotion – “Be good to my dear France!”

Wait, what? “You…know who he is?” Nations weren’t supposed to go around telling everyone who they were – England had always known that France did so often, but he really shouldn’t, for it could cause a security problem –

Then the little old lady laughed, and England felt himself relax in her presence. “I’ve known since I was a girl!” she said with a wink.

England and the old lady talked for hours. They spoke of childhood, of young love, of the war – of soldiers who had limped half-dead through the wrecked streets, of sweethearts who hadn’t come home, of having to pretend that everything was normal when the world seemed to have come to a screeching halt. They spoke of France, who despite the face he presented to the other nations was gallant, brave, strong, courageous, and deserved nothing but the best.

And, little by little, England’s heart melted helplessly in his chest.

\---

A purple iris greeted England the next morning.

If he’d had doubts before, this flower had now soundly erased all of them. It was a purple iris – the flower that had inspired the fleur-de-lis, the symbol of French royalty – the national flower of France.

It was as though France had signed his name all over it.

Without really thinking about it, England found himself chuckling at the thought. It was most certainly an incredibly France-like thing to do – to give an anonymous gift, and leave a thousand and one hints as to the gifter’s identity. It was a shame that England hadn’t figured it out earlier. After all, who but France would trouble himself to remember the importance of obscure flower meanings in England’s past, and choose to exploit that relic of history via a well-thought-out romantic gesture?

Placed beside the red carnation, blue hyacinth and yellow marigold, the purple iris seemed to rest comfortably in the vase. It represented royalty, of course, but that wasn’t its only meaning. Perhaps if England pieced the flowers’ words together, if he could form a sentence –

“I sincerely love you; the fact that I am jealous of the people that you spend time with is only a compliment to you, my love, whom I admire from the bottom of my heart.”

England’s heart fluttered in his chest.

\---

They smiled at each other across the meeting table.

It wasn’t an expression that came habitually to England’s face, but he didn’t care any longer. The nations around them noticed the change, and bent to whisper to each other in hushed voices – but England’s heart was soaring, and he was at the top of the world, and suddenly what others thought of him didn’t matter in the slightest.

There was only one person in the world whose approval he desired.

But it was too early to speak. It was too early to answer the unspoken question that floated silently between them like the lingering fragrance of a rose. They gazed at each other, let their faces say what their voices could not, and left without each other at the end of the meeting, at the end of the day.

And England knew what he had to do.

\---

He slipped out of bed early the next morning and made his purchase.

Two hours later, someone knocked on his door. At first England leapt from his armchair and dashed toward the sound – then he took a deep breath, checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and combed at his unruly hair with trembling hands.

He pulled the door open.

There was a blush on France’s face – that was the first thing that registered in England’s brain. He’d never seen France flustered before; this was the first time, and it was because of him.

“Oh, _Angleterre_ ,” said the man, his voice rippling through the still air, “is – is this from you?”

France took a slow step forward. The two delicate flowers that he was holding carefully in his right hand bounced slightly with the movement – their sweet fragrance drifted between the two men, and circled away to fill the small hotel room.

“Yes,” said England softly. A smile played at his lips; it was almost impossible to stop his face from breaking into a broad grin. He gestured at the first flower. “This one’s a red rose,” he whispered. Then, the other – “This one’s a white rose. Together, they’re – ”

“The Tudor rose,” breathed France, “The flower of England.”

A happy warmth rose in England’s cheeks. “Yes,” he said, “But there’s one more meaning.”

Their eyes met.

“My love for you,” said England, his voice trembling with emotion, “Is pure, innocent, and untarnished by the ashes and dust of this world.”

It was like a hundred-year dam had finally given way. France cried out in joy and launched himself into England’s arms, buried his head in England’s shoulder, pulled England’s body tightly against his – then their mouths were meeting in a kiss, and they were collapsing into England’s bed, and their tears were running down each other’s faces.

“I thought – I thought this would never happen,” exclaimed France, “I thought you’d never return my feelings!”

England pressed a kiss to France’s cheek. “There’s nothing to worry about any more,” he said gently – “I’m here, here in your arms, and I’m not going anywhere.” Then he laughed. “You’re still holding the roses.”

France stared hard at them for a few moments – more likely than not, he’d completely forgotten about their existence. “Oh,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “How silly of me. Where should I put your lovely gift?”

“Over there, with yours,” said England.

For the rest of the morning, the flowers sat in the same vase in contented silence. A red carnation, a blue hyacinth, a yellow magnolia, a purple iris, a red rose, and a white rose – they all said different things, whispered their own words to each other in soft voices, but perhaps they were all the same in the end. Perhaps they only had one meaning, when all was said and all was done.

It was love.


End file.
